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Ashlea

That's her name, a small silhouette of her shame. The simple games she plays; a smile worth nothing certainly she isn't worth anything. Trim and clean, no, not what she seems. The straight edge of her hair, oh, ever so fair. Each cut tells a tale. She beckons in her unclear haze, Really. She, Is home, but it seems not so. That's her walk; simple, well dressed. The tip of her tongue, stayed from guilt causing speech.. Her teeth pale the calmness of her person, Oh a smile worth nothing. Every move she makes has some form of purpose; she knows where she's ending up. Anger-less, with searing shoal of blue waters. Sensitive, what is an ocean of blue without rain followed by a smile? Happy to say the least, loving to a fault, tempered to the point of understanding. Evil like the good that comes from some clean fun. Awful at her best, yet the worst compares so much better. She walks in withered past and crumpled future. If she falls no-one will pick her up, yet her smile is worth nothing. If she could talk she would tell her story. Yet she can't speak, her voice is gone. Her love is shattered. The lightning strikes the shore, the sand wells up into glass, only to shatter, shatter like her heart. She thought she could swim, the water how it cared now about her plight, simply to toss her back to the glassy sands that cut her heart. Here it would be, she would cry without her voice, her only defense, where, as it was, her pale smile. Couldn't she see him and how much he cared; He wouldn't know the knife had slipped, or that sirens buzzed with retribution. How long does a dark day last? How long does a dark night last when even the day is dark? Both could only last much to long for her, yet, here came he with flowers to meet her at home. She wasn't there, with which he carried heavy heart- seeing the tape and the crying man. When would daylight break? Would the night ever set on her calm reprise? Now they've sent her away; he's hung his head, she's died inside, her apathy grown, how could she cry? Mid morning, the light in the room was still the same.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2015




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Date: 1/4/2017 9:48:00 PM
Enjoyed reading this, Mr Murrish. You're quite a good writer, like your style. -- Thank you for sharing. -- wesley Cu.
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Book: Reflection on the Important Things